A Short Trip To Peru, Part 3

The two-week excursion that became a two-month lockdown–and nearly cost us our sailboat.

Recap: We left SV Hanalei at anchor in Ecuador while we flew to Peru for two weeks. Peru and Ecuador both closed their borders and locked down, stranding us with two dozen strangers in the Peruvian Amazon. Quarantine has stretched to one month. Time is running out for our boat’s temporary import. Worse, I’m out of medication.

Puerto Maldonado, Perú.

Running out of meds is no joke.

If quarantine has shrunk my world physically, depression makes it smaller emotionally. It dulls my senses and distorts perspective, dropping like a gray veil between me and hope.

Sorry about the drama, but I need help.

Pharmacy Run

The pharmacy will probably carry my meds. They’re one place we can go without permission, along with banks and markets. I walk two blocks to the town square, passing minuscule tiendas that sell popsicles and milk and cigarettes through windows like they're bootleg. Shuttered shops advertise eco-adventures in the Amazon; closed but interesting-looking restaurants and locked casino doors suggest a laid-back liveliness.That is, before the pandemic emptied the streets.

But there are lots of people out, trying to live some kind of normal life.

Informal vending is prohibited except for now-essential goods: masks, gloves, hand sanitizer, and water.

The public market is still open, though.

Normal life now means waiting.

A long, socially-distanced bank line snakes around the square under the watchful eye of the Army. Without electronic banking or mail deliveries, the only way to collect salaries or pandemic relief funds is in person.

Bank line, Puerto Maldonado square.

At the tiny farmacia, a plastic ribbon marks how far back clients should stand. Two meters. It’s not much help. People who aren’t used to so much empty space keep cutting in front, crowding shop assistants.

I can’t bring myself to object. We’re all new at this pandemic stuff.

When my turn comes, a pharmacist in face shield helps me. Unfamiliar with my medication, she looks it up, but doesn’t find anything like it. Perhaps I should check at the hospital?

A hospital is the last place I want to go.

Three farmacias later I return to Wasaí in tears.

Guests huddle in the lobby, scrambling to find a way home. Only their governments can repatriate them, a process that involves organizing flights, negotiating the right to fly, and obtaining permission to use a Peruvian Air Base.

None of them are wearing masks. Some know-it-all in their party pooh-poohed them.

I steer clear.

I’m becoming isolated, skittish around the strangers I live with.

Wasaí’s manager, Valeria, sees my distress and offers to check the hospital for meds. She phones a friend, then the friend’s friend until she connects with its pharmacy.

The friend’s friend’s friend is pleasant but the answer is the same.

Sorry. Not here. Maybe in Lima.

Stuck In Peru

With thousands of us stranded in Perú there has to be a Facebook group.

Yep, there it is. Americans Stuck in Peru is here to support and keep tabs, provide information and a place to vent.

I ask the Stuck multitudes about my meds. Can they be found in Lima?

Nope, they tell me. Sorry. Not in Peru. Go home.

Most of the Stuck want to go home.

Stephan and I want to go back to Ecuador. What safer place to isolate than a fully provisioned sailboat? There are meds and, not the least, clean underwear. Perfect, except we can’t get there from here.

Something else to wait for.

I’m swimming through mud.

Lobby, Wasaí Eco-lodge, Puerto Maldonado.

Diplomatic Route

Stephan gently probes a diplomatic solution. He talks to the U.S. Embassy.

There must be Ecuadoreans stuck in Perú, too. How are they getting back?

The diplomat replies undiplomatically. “You’re trying to go from one closed country to another when you aren’t a citizen or resident of either one. It’s not gonna happen.”

Besides, don’t we know bodies are stacked up on the streets in Guayaquíl?

Attrition continues among the other guests. They confer by phone, update each other at their too-long dinner tables. Planes are starting to arrive from France, Spain, the U.K., Canada, Germany, the Netherlands, Austria and the U.S.

That gives me an idea. Our friend, Barb, who was supposed to crew with us to Chile, could mail them. She’s sitting on a two-month supply of meds that she was going to bring before everything changed. I force myself to reach out.

It’s getting hard to cope.

Barb is warm and funny, the first friend I’ve spoken to in two months. In a snap, she has the package all ready, awaiting instructions.

I email the U.S. Embassy.

Could they please send my meds down on one of the flights? I mean, since they’ll be in the neighborhood?

I email elected officials to advocate for me. They tell me to evacuate. (See attached form.)

Aren’t they supposed to be pro-mental health?

The Embassy rep says meds aren’t priority. He has to wrangle citizens from dozens of cities, confirm passenger lists, arrange land travel on closed roads. His mission—whether or not we accept—is to get us home,

We’ll wait out the pandemic in Perú, thanks.

He puts us on an evacuation list anyway.

I’m not weeping with joy. I need my meds.

Declaración Juramentada de Turista  (DJT).

Customs

Even if we make it back to Ecuador, we can’t go anywhere else yet. Chile’s maritime borders are closed to non-commercial traffic until at least October. In fact, every Pacific nation we could sail to has closed its borders.

We’ll need to extend SV Hanalei’s Declaración Juramentada de Turista (DJT), permission to import a tourist vehicle temporarily. I email Customs’ service desk to explain our circumstances and ask for six more months.

The next day brings good and bad news. I think.

Not really processing.

1. Good News
   Due to the national health emergency, all procedures have been suspended until April 30. After that, there’ll be a one-month grace period to sort out paperwork.
   

2. Bad News
   Under Ecuadorean law, I have to be in country to request an extension. They’ll need to see my immigration status and a passport stamp.
   

3. Translation
   We’re okay for now, but must apply for the extension when we return.

What if we don’t get back at all? I’m too depressed to think about it, much less plan. Climbing the stairs is too much planning. Everything is too much.

The never-ending staircase to our room, Wasai Eco-Lodge, Puerto Maldonado.

Flight Behavior

The embassy offers a consolation prize, a diplomatic invitation. They've reserved spots for us on a humanitarian flight. It leaves March 31 (tomorrow) from Puerto Maldonado, connects through Lima on to Washington.

If a plane is authorized to come here, why can’t it bring my meds?

We’re on our own after we land.

Please, before I lose it completely and disappear into the Amazon.

Barefoot.

I’m serious.

We have six hours to RSVP.

Maybe we should leave.

Reasons

It's time to check in with our kids.

Family Zooms have become my pandemic bright spot. We’re spending more time than ever with our alleged-adult kids.

What do they think about us coming home?

None of the three likes the idea. Phrases like ARE YOU INSANE? escape lips. Similar sentiments are thought at us with vehemence.

(I know my children's minds.)

Why?

In rapid succession, they point out the following:

1. We have nowhere to stay. Our house is rented out until May. It’s hard to find a temporary place these days.

2. Four flights and four airports is too much exposure.

3. The virus is rampant in the U.S.

4. It hasn't peaked. At least wait until more hospital beds free up.

5. Since there’s no virus (yet) in Puerto Maldonado, we’re probably safer where we are.

6. Why risk it? (Which we all know means I love you.)

I guess we have their blessing to stay here.

I’ll be in my room, in fetal position.

El Presidente Vizcarra says two more weeks.

It Will Only Get Worse

More movement is restricted; men and women may venture out on alternate days. Everyone must stay in on Sundays.

President Vizcarra extends the state of emergency two more weeks. It reminds me of an airline that delays a flight in fifteen-minute increments to improve on-time departures. Like we can’t handle the truth.

I want to believe him. I want airplanes to fly and borders to open. I want to sail to Chile. I wish I felt like this pandemic would really, truly end in two weeks.

I don’t.

I feel like a lobster in a pot who’s just realized the water’s heating up.

It will only get worse.

Covid-19 arrives at the public market, the first confirmed case of community spread. The market is closed for disinfection.

We should have left. Now it’s too late.

Valeria phones the hospital again. This time, a psychiatrist comes to visit. She prescribes an alternative antidepressant, says I should feel better in a few weeks.

Now We Are Five. . . Plus

Every day, a few more faces disappear from common areas until we’re down to five guests. None of us is waiting for a flight home. For different, complicated reasons we’re all staying. Might as well learn everybody's names.

With all those departures comes one on-time arrival. A sloth cub.

Sloth with her newborn cub.

Isn’t that a sign that there’s a future?

Fair Winds,

Christine

Do Tell!

Or not. Mental health is no laughing matter. Millions of us have struggled with it throughout the pandemic. I won’t ask, but please accept a virtual hug.